File Sharing
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: *Secrets will be spilled.* A side story in the "Technical Assistance" universe that takes place after Chapter 16 "Data Decryption and Analysis." Reading through the rest of the series first is highly recommended. Complete.


**Title: File Sharing  
Word Count: 3650**

**Notes: **Gah, I have no idea what I'm doing. This side story started out completely cheesy and ridiculous, but I think I fixed it. Ish. I don't know. I had a minor freak out here before, but I think everything's okay now. I'm still a little unsure about it since the ugh and cheese factors were so high before, so reviews/comments would really help me out. If not though, I think you kindly for reviewing! :)

**Also, important note:** I'm starting to update the chapters of _Technical Assistance_ and move things around, so it might look a little wonky right now. I'm just going back and making some edits that desperately needed making, so nothing _too_ major. I'm hoping to have the changes finished by Thursday. ;)

* * *

Felicity decides that, for someone who nearly died in a fire and experienced an explosion tonight, she's actually in pretty high spirits. After a nice, long shower, her ears have stopped ringing, and she feels human again, wrapped snugly in a fuzzy towel. She knows Barry is in the living room catching up on _Doctor Who_ or _Sherlock_ (she buys the seasons, and he borrows them), but for a moment she feels alone in the good way. It's nice to be alone with her thoughts after that mess, to get everything right in her head before Barry starts demanding details.

She walks out of the bathroom and into her bedroom, and she has to stifle a high-pitched scream when she sees the Arrow standing there, leaning casually against the wall next to her window, as though he's supposed to be there. He doesn't usually sneak in like a creeper, so she _hopes_ he has a good reason. Otherwise, that baseball bat near her bed is going to get a workout tonight—against the Arrow's skull.

To his credit, though, he turns his back to her as soon as he notices she isn't properly dressed. "I didn't mean to scare you," he says quietly. His tone is, well, almost strangled under the synthesizer and, for not the first time, she wishes she could see his expression to determine what's going through his mind.

Before she can respond, Barry calls from the living room, "Sherly? Everything okay?"

Felicity panics a little, knowing the _last_ thing she wants is for Barry to walk in on this scene. "Yeah, everything's fine," she replies quickly, her voice a little off. She hopes Barry won't notice. "I just slipped in the puddle I apparently created in the bathroom. I caught my balance, though—it just surprised me."

He murmurs his assent, and Felicity rounds on the big, green, bow-wielding elephant in the room. "What the hell were you thinking?" she whisper-yells, trying not to disturb Barry again. "It's more than a little stalker-ish for you to be standing here. Explain _now_, please."

He sighs as if _she's_ the frustrating one. "Can we have this conversation after you're properly dressed?" is the only response she gets, frustration in his tone. "I didn't come here to get a free show."

She knows he's lashing out a little because she surprised him, but the quip still offends her a little. It's not like she _asked_ him to come because she was trying to seduce him. _He_ showed up in _her_ bedroom, after all. Still, she gathers the clothes she needs as she replies. "You should _be_ so lucky," she retorts hotly. "Only in your dreams, arrow boy."

She knows he's not going to let that go without a response, so she closes the conversation by shutting the bathroom door—locking it this time—and changing into her pajamas. Knowing the Arrow will want to look at her arm, she's picked out a black tank top, and then a random pair of pajama pants, and she groans when she realizes they have Batman logos all over them. Clearly superheroes are on her unconscious mind tonight.

But it upsets her because that arrogant asshole outside will think she has _him_ on the brain.

Sighing and accepting her fate, she walks out of the bathroom to find the Arrow staring in her direction. His eyes flick upward when he sees her, settling on her right arm as she plops down on her bed. She waves him over tiredly, admitting defeat this time. "Go ahead," she assures him, holding out her injured arm. "Make sure that the paramedics did a decent job."

He chuckles at her reluctance, but slides into place next to her. Felicity can feel the cool leather press against her leg, but his attention is only on her arm, his head tilted down to focus on the stitching. The soft, supple leather of his gloves presses against her arm, but he's far more gentle than she expects from a vigilante. "They did a good job," he allows finally, after a prolonged inspection. In an instant, he's on his feet again, headed for her window. "Goodnight, Felicity."

Surprised by the sudden exit, she grabs at his arm, and her hand falls just below his elbow. She knows that, if he _really_ wants to leave, that won't stop him, but he turns back toward her anyway. "Hey, wait," she calls softly. He turns back to her, head tilted to the side again in confusion. She tries to examine his face, but she can't see past the shadow and hood. "Are you all right? You were scurrying around in that fire, too."

"I'm fine," he assures her quietly. "Just a few cuts and burns—nothing I can't handle." The way he says it reminds her so much of Oliver in that moment, and then she wonders how she made that _impossible_ leap. Those two are day and night. Maybe it's the pain meds still in her system.

He turns to leave again, but this time she notices the limp. "Whoa," she says, stopping him again. "That's one hell of a limp for 'nothing that I can't handle.'" She eases him to sit back down on her bed, and, with a deep frown, he allows it. She puts her hands on her hips. "You're not leaving here until you tell me what happened." She knows it's a hollow threat; if he wants to leave, there's nothing she can do to stop him, and he knows it, too. But he seemed to be ridiculously content to let her be mouthy and demanding in the past, so she figures he'll humor her again.

It's no surprise that he does. He gives her a defeated sigh before saying, "I landed hard on my knee. It's still not right from Christmas." She knows which knee, and she knows he's trying to avoid saying the Dark Archer's name. He's been so successful taking down criminals in the past that she figures the defeat probably rattled his confidence a little. She thinks that, maybe, the Arrow isn't a man who takes defeat well because he isn't used to experiencing it. She knows there's nothing she can say to change his mind, so when her expression softens a little, she pulls it back into its previous features of concern.

"Stay there," she instructs, before running back to the bathroom to get her first aid kit. After the last time he called her, bruised and bleeding, Felicity decided it would be a wise choice, as he would probably break into her apartment, battered and bleeding, at some point. It seems like a wise decision that paid off. While she's there, she spots his shirt off to the side, and she throws it on over her tank top before she freezes to death.

She drags the whole kit on top of her bed, setting it just behind the Arrow. It's a pretty high-grade kit, stocked with everything from acetaminophen to zolpidem, and more supplies than she'll probably ever use. A green-gloved hand pulls on the hem of her shirt once before retreating, and she looks over to find his eyes dark an intense under that hood. It makes her breath catch, and she thinks now would be an excellent time to look away, if her body would actually comply with her mind. "I think you like wearing this shirt as much as I enjoy seeing you in it," he says, and even though his voice is masked by the synthesizer, she thinks that it sounds off somehow. Rougher, maybe.

Her cheeks heating at the sentence gives her enough power to turn away, digging back into the kit as an excuse to avoid his eyes. "It's warm," she mutters, and, under a pile of surgical suture, she also finds the cold pack she's looking for. She breaks it instantly, then sets it on his left knee. He doesn't seem to appreciate the gesture, though, as he starts to argue, "Felicity, I—"

She immediately throws her hand over his mouth, effectively silencing him. It's the first time she realizes that he has stubble around his jaw, and she blames the pitiful lighting—the man always wants to meet at night. "You needed to make sure I'm okay," she says quietly, gently. "Now let me make sure you're okay." She removes her hand, and the look he gives her makes even her _toes_ blush. She really needs to work on those impulse control issues.

There's a long quiet moment between them before he sighs again. The expression on his face says he's less than pleased with this arrangement, but he doesn't deny her. As if accepting their conditions, he holds the cold pack on his knee. Sensing victory, she asks, "Which burns haven't you treated? I have burn cream right here." She holds it up as proof.

Again, he seems dissatisfied with the arrangement, but she rolls her eyes. She's never understood why men have to act like they're invincible. Slowly, though, he removes the icepack and lays it beside him on the bed. Before she can protest, he takes her other hand, pulling her with him toward her lamp in the corner. She only looks at him with confusion as he reaches to turn off the only light in the room, to which he replies, "There are a few on my torso." She gets it then—he doesn't want her seeing his tattoos and scars.

She tries to steady herself because this is very nearly the beginning of some of her fantasies—very _platonic_ fantasies. It must show on her face, because his head tilts to the side as he studies her. A few steady breaths later, she nods, and he turns off the light, washing them both in darkness.

She hears the pull of the zipper on his jacket, and then his hand wraps around hers, cradling it gently. He guides her hand up toward the top of his shoulder, and she hears him suck in a breath as her fingers touch tender, burned skin. "Sorry," she whispers as she pull her hand back and covers her fingers with the burn ointment before touching them back over the burn. She steps closer so that she can cover the entirety, and she has to step over one of his shoes in order to position herself properly. Without thinking, her hand goes to his opposite shoulder to steady herself. "Okay," she says this time, taking a deep breath. There's a flutter in her chest still, but she thinks this isn't as awkward as she thought it would be.

But he convinces her otherwise when he skims her fingers over what she knows to be one of those perfect abs, and she forgets to breathe for a moment. She isn't as methodical this time as she smears the ointment over the burn because, for the sake of her sanity, she needs to keep moving. She has no doubt in her mind that this will play in some of the scenarios in her overactive imagination later. The third burn, however, proves to be the most difficult, his hand guiding hers even lower, pulling to his left side.

She means to pull her hand back as soon as she feels the cool leather at his hip, but he holds her hand firm, guiding it upward a little. Another released breath tells her that she's found another nasty burn, and this time her fingers shake as she tries to cover the area with burn cream. If the Arrow notices, he doesn't say anything, and she's pretty sure he's holding his breath. As soon as she's finished, she jerks back her hand. She tries to leap back, as if something bit her, but she stumbles a little as her leg knocks against his. He catches her arm before she lands on her ass, pulling her up with it. "Careful," he cautions against her neck, and then he pulls back before turning the light back on.

He doesn't have a shirt on this time, and all she's able to see is a few nasty scars and that tattoo she noticed before. Feeling daring for the second time tonight, she puts her hand on it. "Is that where you learned how to fight?" she asks abruptly, but then her brain catches up to her actions and her words. She jerks back instantly, turning and taking the burn ointment back to her first aid kit.

"Never mind. Forget I asked," she adds in a jittery voice. She remembers the last time she put puzzle pieces together, and she doesn't want to make him angry again. But he already has his hand wrapped around her wrist, and he spins her to face him. His mouth is pressed into a hard line, and she suddenly understands how most of Starling City can be afraid of him. With a step backward, she says quickly, "I was just thinking out loud." He steps toward her, and she steps back, in some sort of dance. "Let's just pretend I said something awkward about how lovely those abs are. I'll dream about those." She hits the wall, and she knows she's in trouble now. "You know what? Forget I said that, too."

She sighs when she realizes he's not going to let it go. "Shit," she says finally, mostly under her breath. Louder, she asks him, "How much trouble am I in?"

"That depends," he says quietly, his expression impassive, "on what you know. And what you _tell_ me." She doesn't like that tone—she's never heard that tone before, and it's just not good. It's more like a growl than a statement, and she thinks this might be the voice he uses when he tells people they've failed the city. If so, she's _so_ giving him the scary badass award of the year. When she gets too wrapped up in her thoughts to say more, he puts his hands on her forearms, and now she knows there's no escape. Sure, she _knows_ he won't put an arrow in her—they've come too far for that—but a part of her wonders what he's thinking.

She bites her lip. "In that case," she says slowly, "yeah, I'm not going to say anything. I'm not going to make this any better with my answer. My honest answer, anyway—I don't lie to you, and I'm not going to start now." As soon as she finishes speaking, she bites down on her lip again, closing her eyes. This is _so_ not good on so many levels. God, why can't she keep her mouth shut?

A firm hand takes her chin, easing her lip from between her teeth from his thumb. "Felicity, please," is all he says, and it's the "please" that gets her. He's _never_ said "please" before, never begged for her to do something for him. "Nothing can be worse than what I'm thinking right now."

The words burst out of her like birds flying free for the first time. She's been keeping this secret since just after Christmas, and she just can't handle it anymore. She's keeping so many secrets now—secrets from Barry, from Oliver, from Detective Lance, and now from the Arrow—and it's time to set some free. "I saw the tattoo when I picked you up after the thing with the Dark Archer," she says quickly, the words shooting out in rapid succession. "I was curious, so I—well, I found out that the FBI has a tattoo database of designs used in organized crime and by other criminals." He sucks in a breath, so she already knows what she says will be correct. "I didn't get a good enough look to _really_ be of use, but I looked for multi-pointed stars on the left pectoral. There was only one that came up." Now, her voice drops so low she can barely hear it herself. "Bratva—Russian mob."

His head falls along with his hands, and there's no question anymore that she's correct. For a moment that is probably minutes but Felicity feels lasts for hours, all is quiet, but then he says quietly, defeated, "I was a fool." She doesn't think she heard him right, so this time it's _she_ who tilts his head up. "I should have told you from the beginning who I am, but I didn't want to steal the illusion from you." She doesn't understand what that means, but she'll focus on it later. "I should have trusted you from the beginning." He runs a hand over his face, standing upright again. "I knew when you started digging that this would happen, but it was too late. I never wanted you to know this, Felicity. I wanted to separate you from it. That's part of why I haven't told you."

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion, and his words, while interesting, have nothing to do with what she was saying. Then it dawns on her. "What, do you think I _care?_" His eyes flick to her, and he silently urges her on with a tilt of his head. "Did you think it would upset me? Because it doesn't. I don't know a lot about the mob—Russian or otherwise—but even _I_ know they don't send men in green hoods to go save the city. You're working alone—well, with the exception of Mr. Not-Vigilante and myself. And that means that the mob is your past, not your present." She bites her lip, saying the words that she still struggles to believe, knowing it will be hard to convince him if she doesn't believe what she's saying. "We are _not_ our pasts. Our past experiences are what shape us, but that doesn't mean we're as damaged as the tragedies we've faced."

He looks at her a long moment, but his expression never changes. She chuckles bitterly. "Yeah, I never believed it, either," she agrees. "I still don't. But Mrs. Nagorski used to tell me that all the time, so I thought I'd see if I could convince you." She frowns. "The point is that I'm not going to sit here and make judgments about things I know absolutely nothing about."

His hand reaches toward her for a moment, hesitantly brushing her cheek before cupping it. His hand sits there for a long moment before he finally says, "I don't deserve you."

"You don't," she agrees easily, "not yet. But I think you're gradually getting there."

One chuckle, one shoulder touch, and then he's gone, leaving her in her bedroom alone, wondering when things changed so much between them.

* * *

Felicity walks out of her bedroom to find Barry sitting on the couch, watching _Doctor Who_ as predicted. When he sees her walk into the living room, he says, "Huh, she was a Dalek. Didn't see that one coming."

Tiredly, she drops down on the couch before saying. "Really? Saw that coming when he asked where she got the milk for the soufflés. The Doctor doesn't ask stupid questions, my friend. Weird ones, yes, but not stupid ones." She pauses. "Well, I thought she was one of the puppets, but I wasn't particularly surprised about that."

Barry shoots her an odd look before pausing the show. "What's up with you, Sherly? You seem... off. Like you're dazed." Then his expression turns knowing, which makes her wary. "It has something to do with Oliver Queen, doesn't it?"

She can honestly say she hasn't thought about Oliver since she fell asleep on his shoulder. Between the club being on fire—_literally_—and the Vigilante a few moments ago, Oliver is the las thing on her mind. "No," she says flatly, but then she thinks she has the perfect opportunity to repent. Clearly today is the day for coming clean. She takes a deep breath before admitting, "Barry, I have a confession to make."

His shoulders tense as soon as she says his name. They _never_ use each others' names, unless something very not-good is coming. He immediately frowns. "I'm not going to like this, then, am I?"

She blows out a breath. "Probably not," she admits. Another deep breath before the words rush out of her: "I'm sort of working tech support for the Arrow."

He replies with a breathy chuckle, but then his expression turns more grave. "Oh, God," he says finally. "You're not kidding are you?" She shakes her head, and he runs a hand across his face. "Jesus, Felicity." He blows out a breath before finally asking, "How long has this been going on?"

She winces, and she can see his expression sour, bracing for the worst. "Remember when I found that shot-up laptop on my desk?" Realization is already dawning across his features before she says, "Well, I did find it—that wasn't a lie. But, when I found it, well, there was a vigilante attached to it."

"He could have killed you," Barry says flatly. "Please tell me you didn't confront him."

She snorts. "I was working late, and the asshole was sitting in my chair. Of _course_ I confronted him. But, well, I also helped him get to the information he was after, so he didn't complain too much."

He shakes his head, frowning. "I know I can't convince you to stop," he says, and Felicity is glad he knows her so well, "but be careful, okay?"

"Yeah, of course," she says finally. He turns the show back on before she adds, "You know, I thought you'd be more upset about this."

He throws her a huge grin that sets her on edge. "I forgive you for hiding the truth," he says, but that smile grows wider. "But only if you can get me an autograph." She rolls her eyes, not even dignifying that with a response.

That might be the _one_ thing she can't talk him into.

* * *

_Soundtrack for this mess:_

_"All I Need" - Within Temptation_  
_"Hang Me Up to Dry" - The Raconteurs_  
_"End of the Dream" - Evanescence_  
_"Your Surrender" - Neon Trees_  
_"What Have You Done?" - Within Temptation feat. Keith Caputo_  
_"Bury Me Alive" - We Are the Fallen_  
_"Secrets" - OneRepublic_


End file.
